Sympathy for the Devil
by hulksicle
Summary: John Winchester stops in to check on his boys between hunts. John!POV, Wee!Chesters  *John's contemplates his approach to parenting!*  DISCLAIMER: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.


John Winchester looks down on his children and lets out a quiet sigh. His eyes rest on his oldest son, Dean. The young freckled boy's green eyes are squeezed shut and dart beneath his lids; tears drip from the corners. John leans forward and brushes light brown hair out of the boy's face. He leaves his hand rest on Dean's forehead for a moment; the child's face relaxes as the nightmare quells. John feels a surge of satisfaction, he still has the power to comfort his son, and the hands of a father still their hold magic.

The kid never shows it, the need he has for his dad, but John knows it's there. He sees it in the way Dean watches Sam, the way he looks to his father for approval in everything, the way his face lights up for an unconscious instant when John comes back from a hunt. The hunter steps back severing the contact with his sleeping son. He wonders when the last time he hugged Dean was and laments when he cannot remember doing so for many months.

It's too hard. John Winchester is a strong man, a tough man, a BRAVE man, but this is too hard for him. He can feel the father he was, just below the surface trying to come up for air, but the hunter in him pushes that father back under water. He feels a lump in his throat and tries to swallow around it, eyes tracing the dried marks of tears on Dean's face.

He wanted to protect them, he had to protect them, and that was all John Winchester knew how to do. He could teach them to fight, he could kill every evil son of a bitch that could ever pose a threat to them, and he could keep hunting for the truth behind his beloved wife's death. He could only keep them safe like a good father should. Some part of his brain nagged at him that they weren't safe, even now John knew he should leave before they woke and head to the next hunt. It was the only way.

He ignored the nagging of his conscious and looked at his youngest son on the opposite bed. The younger Winchester boy was curled in a tight ball around the cheap stuffed toy Dean had won for him at a carnival a week before. His face was relaxed and his dark brown hair was ruffled in a humorous mass above his sleeping form. John felt his face relax into a smile as he watched Sammy sleep. Dean protected Sam, took care of him; Dean gave Sam the childhood that John couldn't. Sammy didn't understand yet, but John knew he would soon.

John was waiting for the day when Sam stopped believing in his father with the childish loyalty of a six year old boy with a nervous anxiety. He could never expect his children to understand that by hunting he was giving them all that he could. He didn't expect them to feel like they were in danger, because John had kept them out of it; but they were. In a world full of monsters, all of whom were more than a match for his little boys, how could anyone have expected John Winchester to stand still?

He moved over to Sam's bed and sat on the edge. The kid didn't wake at the movement, something for which his father was both grateful and upset by. He couldn't help but worry that Sam wouldn't wake up if something bad was in the room instead of his dad. He looked at Dean suddenly livid that his older boy hadn't woken at the sound of John entering the motel room; what if Sam had been in danger?

John clenched his fists and waited for the moment of anger to pass. Five minutes later Sam began to wiggle in his attempt to get more comfortable, pulling John from his thoughts. He stood and Sam rolled over onto his other side, feet kicking his blankets off in the process. John waited for the boy to settle and tucked him in.

"''Mmm, thanks Dean," John frowned at Sam's sleeping mumbling and moved back toward the kitchenette of the small room.

He poured himself a whisky and sat at the small cracked Formica topped table. It was time to leave his boys again. There was a vengeful spirit haunting some puritan church up in Massachusetts and he had to take care of it before someone got ganked. He gulped down the liquor and got up. He left a note on the table and walked to the door.

John Winchester spares one last glance on his sleeping children and sighs quietly before silently closing the door behind him.


End file.
